The Last Living Man in Room 402

The HDMI cable frayed at the end, exposed copper wire glinting under fluorescent lights like the tenuous connection between them. Maya watched from the doorway as Liam wrestled with the presentation setup, his backwards baseball hat — a remnant of who he'd been when they started this job three years ago — bobbing with each frustrated tug.

"Need help?" she offered, though her feet stayed planted in the hall.

"Got it." He didn't look up. His iPhone sat on the conference table, screen illuminating with notifications he kept ignoring. After everything that happened last night, after what she'd said to him, his silence felt heavier than the corporate zombie trance she'd been living in for months.

She crossed the room and placed her palm flat against the table, inches from his hand. The contact could have been accidental. Wasn't.

Liam finally looked at her. Really looked. His eyes, usually glazed from staring at spreadsheets for twelve hours a day, held something raw and terrified.

"About last night," he started.

"Forget it." She withdrew her hand. "You're right. We're colleagues. It was unprofessional."

"I didn't say — Maya." He abandoned the cable entirely. "I've wanted to kiss you since the holiday party. I just — we can't be the kind of people who ruin everything because we're lonely in a cubicle farm."

The ventilation system hummed. Somewhere down the hall, their coworkers shuffled like zombies toward another meeting about synergy.

"We're already ruined," Maya said quietly. "I just thought maybe we could be ruined together."

She walked out before he could respond. Behind her, the presentation screen flickered to life, casting blue light over a room that suddenly felt entirely empty.